


One Constant in Many Variables

by Aragarna



Category: White Collar
Genre: Alternate Universe, Car Accidents, Episode Tag, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-20
Updated: 2015-09-20
Packaged: 2018-04-22 14:56:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4839683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aragarna/pseuds/Aragarna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter's life could have taken a lot of different paths if he had made different choices...<br/>WARNING: non-permanent death of major character. Nothing permanent, it all ends well for everyone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Constant in Many Variables

**Author's Note:**

> Wow! Finally finished the fic! I want to thank from the bottom of my heart, [](http://reve-silencieux.livejournal.com/profile)[reve_silencieux](http://reve-silencieux.livejournal.com/) for the help and beta work, as well as [](http://kanarek13.livejournal.com/profile)[kanarek13](http://kanarek13.livejournal.com/) for the beautiful artwork.

[ ](http://i.imgur.com/3hIv1or.png)

 

**\--------------------------------------------  
Part One  
\--------------------------------------------**

  
_Peter braces himself for the impact. By instinct he raises his left arm to protect his head. The shock is terrible. A strong blow hits him on the temple. His last thought, before he slides into the darkness, goes to Elizabeth, his wife, his life._

_I’m sorry, Hon._

 

\--------------------------------------------

  
Peter trots to the mound, as his walk out music resonates through the stadium. _I go to Burke_.

He takes a full lung of air and slowly exhales. He locks his eyes on the catcher’s hands and clears his mind, erasing everything around. It is just him, the catcher, and, in between, the hitter to outsmart. Calmly, precisely, Peter regroups, stretches his arm out, and with a sudden acceleration, throws the ball.

It’s only after the second throw that the tension suddenly rises. Peter takes his time, inhales slowly to control his nerves. With a slight nod of the head, he signals the catcher. He is going to throw a hell of a slicer. It is a turning point. The faith of the game is in Peter’s hands. His magic hands, his killer slice.

It cuts through the air, spinning. The hitter reacts in a fraction of second. He unfolds his arms. The bat swings. Peter holds his breath, and with him, the entire stadium. He can actually feel it, and it is exhilarating. The ball brushes against the bat and falls in the catcher’s glove.

A sudden roar rises from the crowd and Peter, over the moon, jumps high in the air. But as he throws his arms up, he feels a piercing pain suddenly flashing through his shoulder.

His rotator cuff.

His heart breaks. This is all over, and he knows it.

The sorrow in his heart is so big that it numbs out the physical pain in his arm. He slowly takes his glove off, and, now oblivious of the cheering crowd chanting his name, head lowered, he walks out of the field.

 

\--------------------------------------------

“Oh, Hon, you were so beautiful up there, on your mound,” Elizabeth is saying, later, as they’re waiting on his X-rays results.

They’re sitting side by side on the hospital bed. She keeps his hand in hers, grounding, comforting.

She mimes, rather approximately, his throw. Peter tries to smile, but the lump in his throat is too painful. He knew this day would come, eventually, but he wasn’t ready just yet. Though he doubts he would ever have been. The game is his passion, his life.

\- _was_ his life, he corrects mentally.

This is suddenly too much for him. He breaks into tears. Elizabeth pulls him gently into her arms, and he leans in, burying his head in her shoulder.

The doctor, a short balding man with thick spectacles walks in. Peter straightens up and quickly brushes his tears away.

“Mr. Burke,” the doctor says, in a cold professional voice, readjusting his glasses. “I’m afraid this isn’t good news. You’ve severely torn your rotator cuff.”

“Can’t we fix it again?”

“I’m afraid not, Mr. Burke.”

“Will it recover?” Peter asks, ridden by anxiety.

“With proper care and rest, your arm should heal enough to be functional, but I doubt it’ll ever be able to sustain any strong physical strain. Forget about any pro career, young man.”

Peter’s heart sinks.

 

\--------------------------------------------

_“He’s crashing! V-fib!”_

_“Prepare to shock. Two-hundred. Clear.”_

_“Two-fifty. Clear.”_

_Bip._

_“Okay, he’s back. Let’s move.”_

 

\--------------------------------------------

  
“Coach! Neal is cheating, he didn’t walk on the bases.”

“No, I’m not!”

Peter turns around, hands on his hips, to face Neal and Mozzie. Those two… Neal, especially, is a very promising young player, if only he had a better sense of discipline and rules.

“Neal, you need to touch the base, otherwise it doesn’t count.”

“I did!”

“No, you didn’t!” Mozzie objects.

“That’s enough, you two,” Peter cuts off. “Go back to your positions. Neal, go back to first base.”

Hands in his pockets, Neal kicks some dirt off the ground to mark his disapproval but walks back to his initial position.

“That’s right. Okay, everyone in position,” Peter calls the team. “Clinton, you’re up on deck. Let’s go kids!”

As the little champs walk to their respective positions, Peter glances above his shoulder, to Elizabeth, who is sitting in the tribunes.

 

 

  
**\--------------------------------------------**  
**Part Two**  
**\--------------------------------------------**

_“The CT-scan reveals a mild concussion to the head. He’s still unconscious for now, but we don’t expect it to last too long. Of course, we can never be absolutely sure. We need to give his brain time to heal.”_

_“Will…” Elizabeth’s voice breaks. “Will he have any… after-effects?”_

_“Your husband is strong, there’s a good a chance he’ll recover fully. But we won’t know until he wakes up.”_

 

\--------------------------------------------

“El,” Peter greets his wife, as he walks in the little art gallery. “Let me present you Nick Halden.”

Nick takes his hat off and, with a bright smile, holds his hand out. Inevitably charmed, Elizabeth shakes his hand and smiles back.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Nick. Peter told me a lot about you.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” Nick says. “Peter, you hadn’t told me you had such a wonderful wife.”

Nick Halden is the firm’s newest golden boy. In six months, he has easily charmed everyone in the company, from the CEO to the secretaries. No one seems to resist his classy hats, his flake-to-raisins ratio stories or his chivalrous manners. And Peter admits it himself, he _is_ charming. But also too confident, and Peter’s gut instinct told him the minute the man walked in his office with a large friendly smile plastered on his face that he shouldn’t trust him. Peter wishes his new associate wasn’t now so obviously trying to charm his wife, on top of it all. Elizabeth must have caught his annoyance, as she glances as him and shrugs discreetly.

“Nick is looking for a painting to acquire, for his new office at Novice Systems,” Peter says, cutting short the idle talk.

“Of course,” Elizabeth nods. “Do you have anything specific in mind, Nick?”

Nick is walking around the little gallery, looking at the paintings in display.

“Do you have anything European, nineteenth century?”

“That would be rather expensive.”

Nick turns on his heels to face Elizabeth. He flashes a thousand-watt smile. “That shouldn’t be an issue.”

 

\--------------------------------------------

“Hi, Hon,” Elizabeth peeps cheerfully as she picks up the call.

“Hi, Hon,” Peter says back. “Don’t wait for me, tonight. I’ll be working late.”

“Is everything okay?”

“Yes, I just need to double check on our new guy’s results.”

“Nick?” Elizabeth asked, surprised.

“Yes, my gut tells me there’s something fishy about him.”

Elizabeth’s crystal laugh rings through the line. “And we all know not to mistrust Peter Burke’s gut instinct, Novice Systems’ most valuable weapon.”

“I hope you didn’t make dinner.”

“You forget who you married. I am smarter than that.”

Peter chuckles. “I’ll be home soon.”

“I know. Bye, Hon.”

“Love you, Hon.”

Peter hangs up the call and rubs his eyes. He gets up to retrieve his files on Halden and starts reviewing it once again. If there is the slightest irregularity, he’ll find it.

 

\--------------------------------------------

The police lights flash in the evening sky as Nick Halden is walked out in handcuffs by FBI agents. From a short distance, Peter looks at the scene. The young man seems defeated, and he doesn’t protest when he’s bluntly shoved into the police van by a young black female agent, who shoots him a satisfactory smile. For a moment, Peter thinks he caught Halden searching the crowd, but when he follows the direction of his gaze, he doesn’t see anyone standing out.

“Thank you for your help, Mr. Burke,” Agent Berrigan says, as she walks to him. “This one is a great catch. He’s been playing us for years, planning all sorts of elaborate cons and crazy heists. Who knows how many other scams he would have had managed if you hadn’t caught him.”

Peter shrugs with modesty. “I was just doing my job.”

“Well, you did a great job, helping us catch an infamous criminal.”

As the scene clears slowly, Peter smiles. He’s gonna have a hell of story to tell El tonight.

 

  
**\--------------------------------------------**

**Part Three  
\--------------------------------------------**

  
_“Please, come back to me, Hon. I love you. Please wake up.” Elizabeth whispers. She restrains a sob and clears her voice. “I need you, Peter. I don’t know what I’d do without you by my side. I love you. Please, wake up.”_

 

\--------------------------------------------

“Burke, my office,” Hughes calls, giving Peter his two finger trademark.

Peter, who was reviewing with Jones the last updates on Caffrey’s whereabouts, walks quickly from the conference room to his supervisor’s office.

“Close the door.”

A little nervous, Peter complies.

Hughes sits back behind his desk and gesture Peter to sit down as well.

“Agent McAllister is going to retire. Organized Crime is looking for a new Supervisory Special Agent.”

Peter raised an eyebrow. “And… They want me?”

Hughes nodded.

“Don’t they have agents from their own division?” Peter asked. He thought it was kind of odd to ask a White Collar agent to transfer to Organized Crime.

Hughes shrugged. “Agent Ruiz is eyeing the position, but the higher-ups would prefer a little less of a hot shot. Someone who thinks twice before he acts.”

“Look, Reese,” Peter says, “I appreciate the consideration. But I have to run this by my wife. Organized Crime is an all different level. And to be honest, I’m not sure I’d be that interested chasing…”

“Less refined criminals?” Hughes quipped.

Peter smirked. “Mobsters tend to be a little rough on the edges.”

“But someone’s got to arrest them, nonetheless. I’m not surprised the higher-ups would want you there.” Hughes held his hand out and Peter shook it warmly. “Just think about it. Talk to El.”

 

\--------------------------------------------

The thickness of the atmosphere in the van is increasing by the minute. Peter does his best to keep his focus on the computer screen, and the audio feed, and to ignore the dirty details of Ruiz’s date night, as his colleague is giving all the details of his exploits to an appalled probie. That guy might be a good enough agent, but he sure is a schmuck.

“Focus, Ruiz,” Peter grumbles, to cut the story short.

Ruiz sends him an annoyed look, but takes a headphone and sits in silence.

Finally, their guy says the code phrase – _In this case, I think we have a deal_ – which sounds like a deliverance to Peter. He drops his headphone and adjusts his bulletproof jacket.

“It’s a go,” Ruiz shouts in the radio. “All teams, go.”

Peter rushes out of the van, and into the warehouse, followed by a dozen agents from their division, as well as a SWAT team.

Something glitters in the suspect’s hand. Peter wants to warn the team to back off, but before he can say anything, he got hit by the explosion of the warehouse, and everything goes black.

 

\--------------------------------------------

Elizabeth is standing in front of a deep and dark hole. Rain is washing over her. She’s shivering as the gusts of wind seep into her black coat. She looks devastated, like all joy has been sucked out of her body. Heavy tears are falling from her eyes and down her cheek.

Peter wants to reach out to her. But he can’t, because he’s not there. He’s dead and El is burying his body.

 

 

  
**\--------------------------------------------**  
**Part Four**  
**\--------------------------------------------**

  
_“Sometimes, I wish you hadn’t taken Neal’s deal. Maybe you wouldn’t have learned to listen to your romantic side as much, but at least our lives would have stayed boringly safe. I’m just… I’m tired of it, Hon.”_

 

 

\--------------------------------------------

“He’s getting out today,” Peter says pensively as El wraps her arms around his shoulders.

“Who?” she asks, confused.

“Neal Caffrey.”

“Oh.”

Peter looks at the birthday card he had retrieved from his Caffrey box. _Last one from New York!_ Neal had written on the back. Peter isn’t sure how to interpret this.

“Do you regret not taking his deal?”

Peter shrugs. “No way to know. Maybe we’d have caught the Dutchman sooner. Maybe not. We’re still doing pretty good.”

“Now what?” El asks, echoing Peter’s own thoughts. He hopes those eight years in prison would have instilled some good sense in the young man, convince him to stop his crime spree. But somehow he doubts it.

  
\--------------------------------------------

Jones walks into his office, a stern look over his face. “Peter, you’ve got a minute?”

Peter sets aside his case report and nods. Jones closes the door and hands Peter a file. It has the Interpol logo on it. Peter opens the file and glances over the report. High profile museums, all over Europe, dozen of missing masterpieces, mainly impressionists, apparently replaced by high quality forgeries. The Uffizi Gallery in Florence was hit in plain day. In Paris, the Orsay Museum’s alarm didn’t even ring. Copenhagen couldn’t even certify they’d been robbed. Every hit was bolt, smart and very Caffrey.

And yet, Peter couldn’t help but feel vaguely sad. Caffrey was obviously a gifted man. It was a shame he’d continue to waste his genius like that…

“Do they think it’s him?”

“Well, there’s Caffrey’s name all over it, Peter. Of course they know it’s him. They want to know if you’d give them a hand.”

Peter smiles. “Interpol admitting they’re not up to the task?”

He looks up at Jones, amused and excited.

Jones grins. “They’re offering to pay for the flight. They must be desperate.”

Peter gets up. “Let’s go then.”

 

\--------------------------------------------

  
"Oh, Hon, this is so beautiful," Elizabeth says, in awe, as she bends over the Pont des Arts, looking at the _bateaux-mouches_ and large barges drifting along the Seine river. They lean on the railing, Peter wrapping his arm around El's shoulders, and they watch as the sun slowly sets behind the Eiffel tower.

Paris is, indeed, a beautiful city. He can see why Caffrey picked it. There is a certain class to it, and a definite charm in the old buildings, the little cafés, even in the people. Paris breathes history and culture. Well, at least in its historical core. There was likely more to the French capital city, but for now, Peter and Elizabeth were enjoying the postcard scenery of their little getaway.

Peter is meeting with Interpol tomorrow, but tonight, they can enjoy a romantic walk in the most romantic city in the world.

"You want to have a tour on one of those river boats?" he asks El.

She claps her hands and kisses him on the cheek. "You'll have to thank Neal Caffrey for his tasteful choices in travel," she says.

Peter rolls his eyes, but when he sees her so radiant, part of him admits she's right.

 

 

  
**\--------------------------------------------**  
**Part Five**  
**\--------------------------------------------**

  
_“I’m sorry, Hon. I hope you’ll forgive me. But I’d rather have you a little angry at me – and, well Neal probably. Please don’t be too harsh on him. I was the one asking him to lie to you. – I’d rather have you angry than having to see you hurt again because you went after someone bigger than you.”_

 

\--------------------------------------------

“Hughes said that Pratt could hurt you,” Elizabeth says, looking down and fidgeting with her fingernails.

Peter looks at his wife. He sees the worry in her deep blue eyes, the pleading that she refrains from formulating out loud.

“You want me to back off?” he asks her.

She bits her lips. “I know this is your job, Hon, and I respect that. But… What if he does hurt you?”

She won’t clearly ask him to, but Peter can see she does want him to back off. Peter ponders things in his mind. Going after a senator is a risky thing. Even more so if Pratt turns out to be indeed guilty of all the things they suspect – a man not above murder. He’s dangerous, and this is the reason why he should be taken down. If it was just him, Peter would not hesitate for a second, he would take the risks to go after a dirty senator. But it is not just him.

“Okay,” he says simply.

Elizabeth looks up at him, a little surprised that he didn’t argue further. She locks her eyes on his and keeps the contact for a long time. “Thank you,” she finally says, and the relief is clearly audible.

Peter smiles reassuringly and kisses her.

 

\--------------------------------------------

Neal and James are running. They’re running fast, frequently looking over their shoulders as they go down a dark alley. Their breathing is short and harsh. They’re running for their lives, and they’re running out of steam. The alley is becoming darker and Peter can barely see their silhouettes anymore. His heart is racing fast in his chest, like he was running with them.

Finally they stop and turn around. Senator Pratt slowly comes out of the shadow, a sinister smile at the corner of his lips.

He pulls up a gun, and points it at Neal. Peter wants to step in front of him, protect him, but of course, he can’t, because he’s not actually there. He decided to back down.

“No loose ends,” Pratt says.

And he pulls the trigger.

 

\--------------------------------------------

Peter is woken up abruptly by his phone buzzing on the nightstand. Fighting against the fog of sleep, he gropes around for his phone, and connects the call.

“Burke,” he says in a hoarse voice.

 

\--------------------------------------------

Peter walks down the street. His heart is hitting hard against his ribcage. He can barely breath. He approaches the scene. People step aside as he walks through the crowd. He bends down to pass under the yellow tape securing the scene.

Neal and James are lying side by side, both showing a dark red gunshot wound in the middle of the thorax.

 

 

 

****\--------------------------------------------**  
Epilogue  
**\--------------------------------------------****

  
Peter slowly comes to. He feels strange. Light and vaguely dizzy. He becomes aware of his surroundings. He’s lying on a bed, but not his bed. He cautiously opens his eyes and looks around. His gaze stops on Elizabeth. The sight of his wife brings an immediate comfort and relief.

“Hey Hon,” he whispers. His voice sounds a little rough.

She immediately looks up and a beautiful smile brightens her face. “Hey Hon,” she says back. She approaches and kisses him tenderly.

As his mind and sight clears, Peter reads the worries and fatigue in the lines of her face, and it all comes back to him. The car, the breaks, the accident.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

She shakes her head. “I’m just glad you’re finally awake. How are you feeling?”

“Strange,” he says. “Like I’m high.”

Elizabeth smiles softly.

The dreams come back to him in flashes. Vivid images of Neal and James’ bodies assault him. He blinks and tries to push them away, focusing on his little escape in Paris with El. He holds on to this image.

“I had those weird dreams,” he says.

“Dreams about what?”

“I’m not sure. In one of these dreams, I was an accountant and Neal robbed my company… And in another one, I was a baseball player, and then I was coaching little league. And I think Neal and Mozzie were on the team…”

Elizabeth chuckles. “Neal and Mozzie? As kids?”

“It seems so.”  
“Was Mozzie bald?”

Peter tries to remember and grins. “I think he was. I guess I just can’t picture him with hair.”

“So what were the other dreams?”

Peter keeps for himself the painful ones. “Oh, there was one where we went to Paris to go after Neal – I was helping Interpol.”

“You’re taking me to Paris in your dreams?” Elizabeth muses with a hint of mischief in the eyes. “I think your brain is trying to tell you something….”

Peter pauses and thinks this over. In a way, this was true. Somehow all those dreams where what his life could have been if he had made different choices at certain moments of his life.

And thinking back about those different dreams…

“You know, the most interesting part is that there was a common denominator to all those lives I could have had.”

“What?”

Peter smiles softly, pulling El closer. “You.”

“No matter what my life could have been, it seems I can’t imagine it without you in it.”

Elizabeth wipes a tear at the corner of her eye, biting her lips. Peter reaches out with his good arm and caresses her cheek tenderly. She leans into the touch.

“I love you, Hon,” he says.

“I love you, Hon,” she says back.

 

 

[ ](http://i.imgur.com/OdfBZlG.png)

  



End file.
